


If You Do, If You Don’t

by LiliesAtDusk



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angels, Broken Wings, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Gen, God - Freeform, God is an absent father, Hurt Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Hurt Michael (Lucifer TV), Rebellion, The Fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliesAtDusk/pseuds/LiliesAtDusk
Summary: In order to understand the problems that Lucifer and Michael have, it’s important to address the causes. Starting with the biggest, most obvious one:That one time Michael betrayed him,  ran him through with a sword, and pushed him out of Heaven.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	If You Do, If You Don’t

**Author's Note:**

> Just my personal headcanon for Michael’s side of Lucifer’s Rebellion. Some stabbing, some pushing, some falling, and some shitty parenting, but also some cute flashbacks full of brotherly love.

Michael’s wings tremble imperceptibly in the thick air. It’s dark. Far too dark for the middle of the day. Something heavy is swirling in the pit of his stomach, and Michael steels himself to open and look out his window.

A blast of chill and rain hits his face like a wet rag. He struggles to breathe. No light pierces the thick sheet of clouds that are writhing like massive snakes in the sky. The only thing that lights the grounds of the Silver City is the occasional bolt of lightning. They are growing more frequent, and the rain growing heavier.

Michael grips the windowsill to steady himself.

 _Why are you doing this?_ He wants to scream. But he already knows the answer. Somewhere out there, beyond the walls, is his brother, Samael, and his army. They think they’re fighting over Freewill, of all things. Father had told them many times that Freewill and Paradise were almost certainly mutually exclusive ideas. This fact placated all of his other siblings, but not Sam. Sam wasn’t happy to simply live in Paradise. “A wasted existence,” he called it. This upset Father, but Sam issued no apology.

Samael had managed to convince about half of their siblings to join him in demanding Freewill, like the creatures on Earth got. When it was brought up, it was dismissed, and Sam snapped. Of course, he did. It was never truly about Freewill. Samael wanted their Parents’ attention. Their Father was always working on Earth, and Their Mother was always sulking and distancing herself because of it. That left Samael feeling bitter. The other children ignored it, assuming that their work was more important, but it affected them, too.

Samael came to Michael a few days later to ask for his support in a full-on rebellion. Panicked, Michael told him that he couldn’t join him in the fight, but that he would stay home and not participate. Samael had been disappointed but had smiled and told him to use the time to work the drawing he had been trying to finish for months.

Michael turns to his desk. The drawing sits out, but when he looks at it, he feels numb. There is no creative spark, no excitement for the finished product. Only a big empty hole that was growing by the minute.

Thunder rolls outside. A strangled noise escapes Michael’s throat and he takes a step toward the door. He needs to clear his head. He would head downstairs. He would get a drink and try to eat a snack. Sam always said he felt better after eating, which Michael always found strange because they didn’t need to eat.

Michael keeps an eye and an ear out for his parents or anyone else that might have decided to stay home. He hopes his parents are still in their room, “discussing.” Everyone knows they were arguing, but no one has the guts to mention it. Even Sam.

As soon as the first fighting had broken out, two days before, Mother and Father had shared “The Look” and retreated to their bedroom. Michael, for once, was glad for it. He didn’t want them to know he had stayed behind. Father would be angry that he hadn’t defended him, Mother would be upset that he had left his brother to fight without him.

So when Michael reaches the kitchen without meeting anyone, he feels his shoulders relax for the first time since Samael had asked him about the rebellion. A glass of water is already on the counter for him, as usual, and when he‘s done gulping that down, a ripe, skinless mango is there next to it. Michael pushes away the sick feeling in his stomach and takes as big of a bite as he is able. It goes down his throat like sandpaper, but he doesn’t stop. He has to make the feelings go away, and you know what? It’s starting to work.

It‘s not until he’s about to search for another mango that Michael feels someone standing behind him. The fruit has calmed his nerves quite a bit, so when Michael turns around, there is a hint of a smile on his face.

There is his Mother, stone-faced and straight-backed. She motions for Michael to follow her with a wave of her hand, turns, and leaves. She doesn’t even wait for the customary bow. There is a stiffness in the way she walks, Michael notices. She looks like a coil wound too tight, and she leads him toward the conference room. She takes a strange route, wandering from one end of the house to the other, but Michael knows. His Father will be waiting on His throne (but He would never call it that) when they arrive.

And He is. His face is expressionless. His eyes are blank. Michael recognises that look. It appears to be nothing, but it is rage in its purest form. When that face makes an appearance, death and destruction follow.

His Mother walks to sit beside him and Michael swallows hard. The tremble in his wings returns. He stretches them out and lowers his head in respect, hoping to incite a happier reaction.

His Father doesn’t react. He only stares for what feels like hours. Michael stays in his position, waiting for anything that says “at ease.” It doesn’t come. The only thing that comes is one simple sentence.

“Subdue him.”

“Forgive me, Father. I’m not sure I—“

“SUBDUE HIM! With any means necessary.”

Michael shoots up into an upright position at once. The fear that has been boiling in his stomach finally overflows into the rest of him. His wings are visibly shaking now, fast and hard. His Father pays no mind to this. He only glares angrily at the act of disrespect.

“You can’t honestly expect me to attack him, Father?” Michael cries, his voice raising an octave. He is cold.

God looks down at him with such contempt that Michael takes a step backwards.

“Father! _Please_!” Goddess’s stony facade shatters like glass as Michael pleads. He watches the tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She turns away. Michael begins panicking. “What are you even planning on doing with him?”

God’s only response is to reiterate. “You heard me. Subdue him. Call to me when it is done.”

The numb feeling returns. Fear and anger and cold lick at the edges of Michael’s mind, but he pushes them down. He has to fight Samael. Outside of a sparring match. For real. His heart stutters in his chest. Why does Samael have to be so dumb?

Something cold materialises in Michael’s hand. It’s heavy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it‘s his sword, but he refuses to think about it. He spares one final look at his Mother, snaps his wings out, and is gone.

——————————

Outside, the thunder is much louder, and the lightning much brighter. Michael pauses to scan the area for his brother. He doubts he is this close to their house, though, because it doesn’t offer any distinct advantages or disadvantages. Samael is smart, he would have taken the fight somewhere that he will have the upper hand.

 _The towers!_ There is a small section of the Silver City that houses some massive towers in close quarters. An aesthetic decision, mostly, so they aren’t a frequently visited spot, but they do make for a great place to sneak out. Samael’s wings are built for speed and agility and Michael falters as a memory returns to him.

_“Come on, Mickey! I can’t show you with the other’s around!” Samael whines. Michael rolls his eyes, but a smile plays on his lips. They are nearly identical, save for the wings, with all the boyish charm of the thirteen-year-olds they appear to be._

_“Make it quick, Sam. If Dad finds out...”_

_“He won’t if you’d hurry uuuup!” Samael bounces back and forth on his toes, an excited gleam in his eyes. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he chatters. Michael follows him into the deserted streets._

Snapping out of the memory, Michael shakes himself. He needs to concentrate.

 _Subdue him_ ,Michael thinks bitterly. Why does it have to be him? Why can’t his Father go himself and just Command Samael to stop?

 _All I have to do is explain. He’ll understand_. Michael knows deep down that this is a lie, but it is what he needs to tell himself.

The towers loom high as Michael slows. He can hear it, now. The screaming. The beating of wings. The scraping of metal on metal. He can see it, too. The light, at least. The memory grips him again.

_“You brought me out here to see a field?” Michael gapes, exhausted. The walk had taken at least an hour and a half and Michael’s feet are sorer than he ever remembers them being._

_“Of course not, stupid!” Samael laughs. “I brought you out here to show you my wings.”_

_Michael’s eyes bug out of his head and he lets out a choked squawk. “SAM, I SEE YOUR WINGS EVERY DAY!” One hand balls into a fist in his own hair. “What could you possibly have to sh—“_

_And Samael unfurls his wings. Michael’s jaw drops. There is hardly any down left on them, and nearly every feather had grown in. They almost look..._

_“Flight ready, you think?” Samael asks excitedly. Michael stands frozen, staring. It’s Samael’s turn to roll his eyes._

_“Hey, Heaven to Mickey? Oh, come on. You really do see them every day, stop staring, perv.”_

_Michael’s awestruck expression slowly melts into something more somber. Samael opens his mouth as if to speak, but Michael cuts him off by spreading his own wings. Down still clung to them in patches, and he hadn’t nearly as many feathers as his brother._

_Samael frowns. “Why aren’t they growing like mine? They should look the same!” He reaches out a hand to stroke Michael’s left-wing._

_“Probably because Dad’s always fussing over yours. Daddy’s Boy!” Michael blows a raspberry at Samael, who pulls a face._

_“That’s not true! If anything, he’s always fussing over Amenadiel’s wings. Now there’s a Daddy’s boy.” Samael grins. “‘I’m the firstborn,’” He mocks. “‘I am the best of our Parent’s children!’ More like ‘rough draft’! The only thing he’s best at is being a total ass.”_

_Michael laughs. He laughs so hard his body heaves with the force of it. He’ll be okay if his wings take a little longer to mature. They’ll get there, eventually, and he has a good friend with him while he waits. Samael, however, is staring quizzically at the missing feathers._

A strong gust of wind slaps Michael in the face with freezing rain. The ache in his chest returns and he ignores it. There is a job he has to do, whether he likes it or not. His hand tightens on his sword.

Michael touches down in the grass a little ways away from the block. He doesn’t want to charge straight into the battle without getting an idea of what was happening. It isn’t hard for him to spot Samael; his brilliant wings give him away immediately in the gloom. He’s locked in combat with Jegudiel, who is dual-wielding daggers that seem to glow with their Father’s light. They won’t destroy Samael, at least. Only Azrael’s Blade can do that, and she is on Earth. Michael wonders silently if she‘s on Earth for her duties or if Samael had told her to stay there for a while so she wouldn’t get caught up in battle.

Samael lashes out with his wings, knocking a dagger out of Jegudial’s hand and cutting deep into the flesh. Michael hears Jegudial’s cry of pain from where he was hiding in the hedges and cringes.

Michael looks around for someone on Samael’s side. He needs someone quick. Just as he thinks of it, Cassiel rockets into the ground in front of him. She growls and prepares to fling herself back into the fight, but Michael grabs her hand. She whirls on him with unrestrained fury. He instinctively puts his hands up.

“Michael?” She gawks. “Are you here to fight for us?” She looks hopeful, and Michael feels a tug in his stomach.

“I need you to fetch S— _Luce_ for me. Can you do that?”

Cassiel’s eyebrows’ scrunch in thought, but she nods and takes off. Michael watches her freckled wings with interest and trepidation. Their Father had modelled a bird after them, and apparently, it was the fastest on Earth.

He trembles as she approaches Samael. His white wings have splotches of blood on them, but Michael feels relief (and a little guilt) as he notices that it wasn’t his. Michael can’t make out the expressions on either of their faces, but as soon as the conversation is over, Samael is moving in his direction.

As he gets closer, Michael sees the fear on his brother’s face. Well hidden behind defiance and pride, but there nonetheless. Samael has seemingly no trouble spotting Michael in the bushes. He glides over the topmost branches and gives Michael a bright, but worried smile.

“I thought you were staying home?” Samael breathes. The robe he is wearing is tattered and drenched in sweat. It clings to him like a second skin. The guilt flares up again. Those pesky emotions are back.

“I— Sam I’m sorry,” Michael pleads, looking away.

“Why would you be sorry?” Samael asks, a note of suspicion in his quiet voice. He takes a step back.

“It was Dad! He told me to come get you.”

_That was basically what he said, right?_

“What? And you listened?” Samael hisses. “ _Go home_. I have a rebellion to win.”

Michael shrinks back and begs. “Please, Sam. I don’t want to fight you—“

“FIGHT ME?” Samael’s eyes fill with rage. The weight in Michael’s chest is becoming unbearable. “You knew what I was doing. You agreed to stay impartial. And now you’re here to do Dad’s dirty work like always? You’re supposed to be my brother!”

“I don’t have a choice!” Michael cries out in desperation. His fingers dig into the soil as he tries to hold back tears. His whole body is freezing and boiling at the same time. He just wants to go home.

“There is _always_ a choice! No matter what _Dear Old Dad_ says!” The pain in Samael’s voice is tangible. Michael wills the numbness back.

“No, there isn’t. Father said to subdue you and I will. Please just come home and this can be over.” The sword in Michael’s hand burns. He knows what the answer will be. For what felt like the hundredth time, Michael forces himself to bottle his emotions up tight.

Samael turns a pained eye to Michael. “You and I both know that’s not going to happen.”

It‘s sudden, the attack. Even Michael doesn’t see it coming. He launches himself at Samael, tumbling with him through the leaves until they crash into the streets. They’re a mess of feathers. They pummel each other with their massive wings, drawing the attention of all the others on the battlefield. No one else moves. After that, there are only three key moments that Michael can remember clearly from the fight.

 _The first is when_ Samael growls low in his throat, an animalistic glint in his eyes. He is on his hands and knees, just like Michael. Their breaths are laboured, heavy.

“Come on, Sam. Let’s just go home,” Michael challenges. “Afraid to face Dad?”

“He’s the one hiding in his room, Mickey.” Some semblance of a grin crosses Samael’s face. Michael relaxes a little. A terrible decision, in hindsight.

In a fraction of a second, Samael rears back and brings his wings up, sharp as razors. Michael lets out a strangled scream as a feather gouges deeply through his face. There is blood. In his eyes, in his mouth, and even in his nose when he breathes in. White-hot pain spreads across his entire face.

With the pain comes rage, and Michael takes off after his brother.

 _The second is when_ Michael and Samael are fighting above the towers. They are evenly matched. Either neither lands a blow, or both do. Samael must accept the stalemate because a crazed look flickers across his face.

“I’ll apologise in advance,” Samael remarks. Michael doesn’t even have a chance to ask what he‘s talking about.

Samael lunges forward, and Michael quickly dodges to the side. Pain immediately tears through his wing. Samael has fistfuls of his feathers and he rips them out without hesitation. Michael pulls his wing back instinctively, but Samael doesn’t let go, and he plows right into his brother. With no one trying to fly, they begin to plummet.

Michael struggles against Samael, who traps his arms. Panic surges through his chest as the ground approaches, but Samael doesn’t let go.

They hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Michael vaguely registers several screams from the watching crowd. Samael pulls himself up onto his feet and backs away. There is so much more pain; every breath feels like daggers in his lungs. Michael keeps his eyes closed for several long seconds.

When he finally manages to peel himself off the ground, he staggers backward and doubles over. He knows he has to have broken several ribs, and he doesn’t even want to think about what happened to his spine. He can feel his shoulder blade and the way it juts out. Samael meets his eyes with disdain.

 _The third and final moment is when_ Samael tackles Michael to the ground and pummels him with his fists until Michael stops moving completely. He can barely open his eyes and his muscles are screaming. Many long minutes later, Michael feels the weight on his chest lessen. The silence rings in his ears.

“Why couldn’t you just stay home?” Samael growls. “I should have known you wouldn’t keep your word.“ Michael shudders where he lay, feeling hurt and spite well inside him. “Always Daddy’s loyal mutt.”

Michael considers his options for many seconds before he forces his eyes to open. His brother is crouching with his back to him. He could give up, wave the white flag. He could march on their home with his brother at his side and tell their Dad that they demanded the right to do as they please. But why should he? That same brother had just practically destroyed his wing and did Dad-knows-what to his back. Why shouldn’t he be bitter? As quietly as he can, Michael reaches for his sword. When his fingers meet the hilt, he readies himself for what he’s about to do. He takes in Samael for several seconds. His robe that hangs in tatters, his body that shakes with exhaustion, and finally the dark curls that are glued to his face and neck with blood and sweat. Michael’s grip tightens.

With one swift motion, Michael buries his fingers in Samael’s hair. The shock knocks him off balance, and Michael pulls him backwards by the curls, right onto his waiting blade. Samael’s hands go straight to the wound. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream. Michael gives the sword a small twist as he pulls it clean of his brother, who falls to the ground in a bloody heap.

The anxious sounds of the other Angels make their way into his head. He recognises one scream as Azrael’s.

Samael shudders and coughs. Blood splatters onto the street.

“Why couldn’t you just go home?” Michael snaps at him, ignoring the way he desperately tries to stop the bleeding. Samael doesn’t look at him.

 _“ANSWER ME!”_ Michael roars. He looks around wildly at the others, who are spread out in a wide semi-circle between the buildings. They are staring, waiting.

Without thinking, Michael rushes forward and slams his foot down on Samael’s left wing with a crack so loud it reverberates around the block. Samael’s eyes squeeze shut, then open to meet Michael’s.

“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,” he spits. A cough wracks his body. Bloody saliva drips steadily from his mouth.

Michael stomps hard into Samael’s other wing, snapping it and leaving a jagged bone protruding from the flesh. The breath rushes out of his lungs in a deep groan. Brilliant white is quickly overtaken by dark red while Michael watches his brother’s chest rise and fall in a jagged rhythm.

“You did this to yourself, S— _Lucifer_.” Samael keeps his head down. He looks pale. “I had no choice.”

“ _There is always a choice!_ ” Samael rasps. His eyes begin to glaze over and a pool of blood stretches out around him like a decorative rug.

Michael scowls at him. “You chose poorly.” He prepares himself to pray to his Father, to tell him that he has defeated Samael in battle and that he is ready to be punished, but worry prickles at his neck. What if his Father destroys Samael? Michael knows he could do it, and even though he is completely and totally livid at his brother, he doesn’t want him to be wiped out of existence entirely. Not only is it the easy way out, but he is still Michael’s brother. His _twin_ brother.

A silence lays thickly over the block. Even Azrael’s sobbing had ceased. Michael steps toward Samael, who was either calming down or about to faint.

He grabs him roughly by the front of his robe and hauls him to unsteady feet. Samael leans forward, shifting his weight until it falls entirely on Michael. They stand like that for a while. Michael tries not to think about how whole he feels at that moment, how right it feels that they are like this. For just a little while, they are one again. Only when his breathing is even again does Michael put his lips to his brother’s ear.

 _“I’ll apologise in advance_ ,” He whispers hoarsely. Samael’s eyes snap open in panic, just before Michael pushes him. Pushes him straight through the plane of existence that is Heaven.

For a few moments, they’re both falling. Michael doesn’t let go of Samael, and Samael doesn’t let go of Michael. Michael stares him in the eyes. He doesn’t want to let go. He could just stay with him. He wants to stay with him. But then he sees it.

Hell. He can see it through the plane that Earth resides on. It’s dark, terrifying. He feels the despair even from so far away. It calls out with the promise of punishment, of guilt, of regret. But even worse, it calls out to _him_.

Panic and desperation surge through Michael’s body. He pries his brother’s hands from his rob and tries to kick him away. He needs to get back home. To safety. Samael, content until that moment, reaches out in fear. His hand connects with Michael’s wing for the second time, pulling it hard. They’re panicking. Michael twists himself free, howling with the pain that shoots into his shoulder and snaps something deep within.

Finally separated from his twin, Michael flaps his wings sporadically. His right wing nearly refuses to function at all. Eventually, he comes to a graceless halt, panting heavily. He can still see Samael. Already past the plane that Earth resides on, he rapidly approaches Hell. Michael watches him from this distance. He doesn’t turn to leave until Samael disappears from view. He wonders silently if his brother would still be alive when he finally hits the ground.

——  
When Michael returns home, his siblings are all waiting in the yard. He pushes past them. He just wants to fill his Father in and go to bed, not sit around and explain himself.

It comes as both a pleasant worrying surprise that his Father says naught but five words to him between his entrance and his exit.

_“Where is he?”_

_“Hell, Father.”_

_“Okay. Dismissed.”_

Michael staggers into his room and straight onto the bed. He stars, exhausted into his own eyes in the mirror. Honestly, he looks like shit. There is blood in his hair, covering his face, in his mouth, all down his robe, and splattered over his wings.

 _My wings_ , he thinks worriedly. Michael _really_ doesn’t want to see what Samael had done to them in the fight. They feel like two sacks of cinder blocks and look like they’d been beaten by some, even while folded. He opens them tentatively.

Before the breath can fully escape his lungs, he was back in the past.

_Michael pulls his wings in self-consciously under his brother’s gaze. A prickle of worry spreads across him in the form of goose-bumps all along his arms._

_“Mickey, can I try something?” Samael asks hesitantly. A breeze blows a stray curl into his face. He looks so small._

_Michael considers him for a moment. His eyes narrow. “If you promise not to pluck me.”_

_“Pshh, deal! Okay, sit down and open those wings.”_

_Michael flops into a cross-legged position on the ground gracelessly. His ink-black wings stretch out, twelve feet on each side. A comfortable warm feeling settles on his wings where Samael places his hands. Michael closes his eyes._

_“Just like, scream or something if it hurts? I’ve no idea if this will work,” He warns dismissively._

_“Oh, that’s refreshing, I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks.”_

_He hears Samael suck in a concentrated breath. He can almost imagine the way his nose would scrunch and how his eyebrows would nearly touch when they furrow. The hands on his wings pull away, leaving a powerful tingle in their wake. It spreads over every feather, making Michael squirm in place._

_Whatever it is that Samael is doing, Michael does not want to distract him, which is why his mouth closes just as quickly as it opens. He has no clue what his brother is doing back there._

Hopefully nothing too weird, he thinks with a smile. _Dad wouldn’t take kindly to hot pink again._

_The sensation of heat and tingling reaches it’s peak a few minutes later. Samael hadn’t said anything at all the entire time, which has to mean that he is being very careful. And he was almost never careful._

_“Alright, featherbrain, on your feet.” Samael’s voice holds the promise of... something. He sounds excited, anxious._

_“What’d you do? Give me one of those fancy magic massages that Raph says ‘stimulate growth?’” Michael gets up with ease, not even using his hands, and he is definitely not expecting the answer he received._

_“I mean... kinda? But not quite. Just look!”_

_So Michael turns his head to see them. And oh boy, is he shocked. The down is gone, replaced by sleek feathers. Most of the missing primaries and secondaries are filled in. They look just like Samael’s wings._

_“How did you do that?” He gasps._

_“I just kinda,” Samael gestures vaguely with his hands. “You know... Did it.”_

_Michael blinks rapidly, feeling tears well in his eyes. He wipes them away with a sniff._

_“You didn’t have to do that.”_

_Samael smiles at him, eyes glinting delightedly. “I don’t have to do anything. But I wanted to, and you look pretty happy. Besides, if Dad doesn’t want me making a bunch of freaky two-headed animals, I have to use my powers somehow.”_

_Michael raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t have to do anything?”_

_“Oh, shove off. Totally different. What if I like explode or something from not using my powers, huh? There’s a silent ‘assuming I won’t die’ at the end of that phrase, Mickey, and you know it.” Samael gives his wings a shake out of faux-indignation. He turns to Michael with a wicked grin._

_“How about a test flight?”_

And there, sitting in his room alone, something starts to fester. He is without brother, without wing, without dignity. The pain his in back and shoulder thrums with his heartbeat, slowly cementing something vile into him. The sleep he falls into does not leave him feeling rested.

Weeks and months and years go by, and the missing feathers do not return. His back doesn’t heal. His siblings keep their distance or avoid him entirely. Azrael openly gives him dirty looks. His Father has _still_ hardly said a word to him, in praise or otherwise. He breaks down several times, alone, in his room. But the bitterness inside of Michael grows and expands outwards until it becomes him.

He has never had anything of his own. He _will_ never have anything of his own. The only way for him to be as good as someone else is for him to be someone else.

So he will.

He has no choice.


End file.
